Marrying Winterborne (5 page)

R
HYS KEPT
H
ELEN
'
S HAND
in his as he led her along an enclosed passageway, a kind of gallery with windows that went from a door in his office to one of the upper floors of his house.

Not for the first time that day, a feeling of unreality crept through her. She was more than a little amazed by what she was doing. Step by step, she was departing her old life with no possibility of return. This was nothing like the madcap exploits of the twins, it was a serious decision with unalterable consequences.

Rhys's shoulders seemed to take up the entire breadth of the passageway as he led her to an enclosed stairwell. They proceeded to a small landing with a handsome door painted glossy black. After he unlocked the door, they entered a vast, quiet house, five floors arranged around a central hall and principal staircase. There wasn't a servant in sight. The house was very clean and smelled of newness—fresh paint, varnish, wood polish—but it was bare and sparsely furnished. A place of hard surfaces.

Helen couldn't help contrasting it with Eversby Priory's comfortable shabbiness, the profusion of fresh flowers and artwork, the floors covered with worn patterned carpeting. At home the tables were piled with books, the sideboards were heavy with crystal and por
celain and silver, and a pair of black spaniels named Napoleon and Josephine roamed freely in rooms lit by lamps with fringed shades. There was always afternoon teatime, with hot breads and pots of jam and honey. In the evenings, there was music and games, and sweets and mulled wine, and long conversations in deep cozy chairs. She had never lived any place other than Hampshire, a landscape of sun and rivers and meadows.

It would be very different living in the center of London. Glancing at her sterile, silent surroundings, Helen tried to imagine the house as a blank canvas waiting to be filled with color. Her gaze followed a row of tall sparkling windows up to the high ceiling.

“It's lovely,” she said.

“It needs softening,” Rhys replied frankly. “But I spend most of my time at the store.”

He led her along a long hallway until they reached a suite of rooms. They passed through an unfurnished antechamber into a large, square bedroom with lofty ceilings and cream-painted walls. Helen's pulse raced until she began to feel slightly dizzy.

Here at least was a room that seemed lived-in, the air spiced faintly with candle wax and cedar and firewood ash. One wall was occupied by a long, low dressing-bureau topped with a carved wooden box and a tray containing various objects: a pocket watch, a flat brush and a comb. The floor was covered with a Turkish rug woven in shades of yellow and red. A massive mahogany bed with carved posts had been centered against the far wall.

Helen wandered to the fireplace, investigating the objects on the mantel: a clock, a pair of candlesticks, and a green glass vase of wood spills, used to light candles from the fire. The hearth had been lit. Had
Rhys sent advance notice to his servants? Certainly the household was aware of his presence, there in the middle of the day. And his secretary, Mrs. Fernsby, knew exactly what was happening.

The recklessness of what she was about to do was nearly enough to make Helen's legs buckle.

But she had made her choice; she wouldn't turn back now, nor did she want to. And if one viewed the situation pragmatically—which she was trying very hard to do—she would have to submit to this sooner or later, as every bride did.

Rhys drew the curtains over the windows, casting the room into shadow.

Staring at the crackling, dancing flames, Helen spoke, trying to sound composed. “I must rely on you to tell me what . . . what I must do.” Reaching up with trembling hands, she extracted the long pin, tugged the hat from her head, and wound the veil loosely about the small brim.

She was aware of Rhys coming up behind her. His hands came to her shoulders and slid to her elbows. Up and down again, in calming strokes. Tentatively Helen leaned back against his chest.

“We've shared a bed before,” she heard him murmur. “Remember?”

Helen was momentarily confused. “You must mean when you were ill, at Eversby Priory?” Blushing, she said, “But that wasn't
sharing
a bed.”

“I remember that I was burning with fever. And there was a killing pain from my leg. Then I heard your voice, and felt your cool hand on my head. And you gave me something sweet to drink.”

“Orchid tea.” She had learned a great deal about the
medicinal properties of the plants by poring over an extensive set of journals her mother had kept.

“And then you let me rest my head here.” His free hand slid around her front, high on her chest.

Helen took an uneasy breath. “I didn't think you would remember. You were so very ill.”

“I'll remember it to my last hour of life.” His palm coasted gently over the curve of her breast, lingering until the tip tightened. The hat dropped from Helen's nerveless fingers. Shocked, she stayed motionless while he whispered, “I've never fought sleep as fiercely as I did at that moment, trying to stay awake in your arms. No dream could have given me more pleasure.” His head bent, and he kissed the side of her neck. “Why did no one stop you?”

She quivered at the feel of his mouth on her skin, the erotic graze of warmth. “From taking care of you?” she asked dazedly.

“Aye, a rough-mannered stranger, common-born, and half-clothed in the bargain. I could have harmed you before anyone realized what was happening.”

“You weren't a stranger, you were a family friend. And you were in no condition to harm anyone.”

“You should have kept your distance from me,” he insisted.

“Someone had to help you,” Helen said pragmatically. “And you had already frightened the rest of the household.”

“So you dared to walk into the lion's den.”

She smiled up into his intent dark eyes. “As it turned out, there was no danger.”

“No?” His voice held a gently mocking note. “Look where it's led. You're in my bedroom with your dress undone.”

“My dress isn't—” Helen broke off as she felt her entire bodice come loose, the fabric sagging downward from the weight of her overskirts. “
Oh
.” Anxiety whipped through her as she realized that he had unbuttoned her gown while they had been talking. She clutched at the garment to halt its descent, all her nerves simultaneously burning and chilled.

“First we'll talk about what's going to happen.” His mouth caressed her cheek. “But it's better if we're both comfortable.”

“I'm already comfortable,” she said, her insides as tight as an overwound watch mechanism.

Rhys pulled her against him, one of his palms sliding over her corseted back. “In this contraption?” he asked, tracing the ribbed channels of whalebone. “Or this?” His hand settled briefly on the small horsehair pad of her bustle. “I doubt any woman could feel at ease in so much rigging.” He proceeded to untie the cords. “Besides, fashionable ladies no longer wear bustles.”

“H-How do you know that?” Helen asked, flinching as the contraption thudded on the floor.

Lowering his mouth to her ear, he whispered as if imparting a great secret. “Undergarments and hosiery, second floor, department twenty-three. According to the manager's latest report, we're no longer stocking them.”

Helen couldn't decide if she was more shocked by the fact that they were discussing undergarments, or by the fact that his hands were roaming freely beneath her dress. Soon her petticoats and corset cover landed on the floor with the bustle.

“I've never bought clothing from a department store,” she managed to say. “It seems odd to wear something made by strangers.”

“The sewing is done by women who support themselves and their families.” He tugged the dress sleeves from her arms, and the gown sank to the floor in a shadowy heap.

Helen rubbed the gooseflesh on her bare arms. “Do the seamstresses work at your store?”

“No, at a factory I'm negotiating to purchase.”

“Why—” She stopped, shrinking away as he unhooked the lowest fastening on the front of her corset. “Oh please don't.”

Rhys paused, his gaze searching her tense face. “You're aware this is done without clothing?” he asked gently.

“May I keep my chemise on at least?”

“Aye, if that would make it easier.”

As he proceeded to unfasten the corset with efficient tugs, Helen waited tensely, trying to focus on something other than what was happening. Finding that impossible, she brought herself to look up at him. “You're very accomplished at this,” she said. “Do you undress women often? That is . . . I suppose you've had many mistresses.”

He smiled slightly. “Never more than one at a time. How do you know about mistresses?”

“My brother Theo had one. My sisters eavesdropped on an argument between him and our father, and they told me about it afterward. Apparently my father said Theo's mistress was too expensive.”

“Mistresses generally are.”

“More expensive than wives?”

Rhys glanced at her left hand, which had come to rest tentatively on his shirtfront. The moonstone seemed to glow with its own inner light. “More than mine, it seems,” he said wryly. Reaching up to her chignon, he
eased the jet combs from her hair, letting the fine locks tumble over her shoulders and back. Feeling her shiver, he drew a calming hand along her spine. “I'll be gentle with you,
cariad
. I promise to cause you as little pain as possible.”

“Pain?” Helen pulled back from him. “What pain?”

“Virgin's pain.” He gave her an alert glance. “You don't know about that?”

She shook her head tensely.

Rhys looked perturbed. “It's said to be trifling. It's . . . Damn it, don't women talk about these things? No? What about when you began your monthly bleeding? How was that explained to you?”

“My mother never mentioned anything. I didn't expect it at all. It was . . . disconcerting.”

“Disconcerting?” he repeated dryly. “It probably frightened the wits out of you.” To her astonishment, he pulled her toward him slowly, until she was cuddled against his hard chest, her head on his shoulder. Unused to being handled so familiarly, she remained tense in his embrace. “What did you do when it happened?” she heard him ask.

“Oh—I can't discuss that with you.”

“Why not?”

“It wouldn't be decent.”

“Helen,” he said after a moment, “I'm well acquainted with the realities of life, including the basic workings of a woman's body. No doubt a gentleman wouldn't ask. But we both know that's not an issue where I'm concerned.” He tucked a kiss into the soft space just beneath her ear. “Tell me what happened.”

Realizing that he wasn't going to relent, she forced herself to answer. “I awakened one morning with . . . with stains on my nightgown and the sheets. My tummy hurt
dreadfully. When I realized the bleeding wasn't going to stop, I was very frightened. I thought I was going to die. I went to hide in a corner of the reading room. Theo found me. Usually he was away at boarding school, but he had come home on holiday. He asked why I was crying, and I told him.” Helen paused, remembering her late brother with a mixture of fondness and grief. “Most of the time Theo was distant with me. But he was very kind that day. He gave me a folded handkerchief to . . . to put where I needed. He found a lap blanket to wrap around my waist, and helped me back to my room. After that, he sent a housemaid to explain what was happening, and how to use—” She broke off in embarrassment.

“Sanitary towels?” he prompted.

Her humiliated voice was muffled against the shoulder of his waistcoat. “How do you know about those?”

She felt a smile nudge against her ear. “They're sold in the store's apothecary department. What else did the housemaid tell you?”

Despite her nerves, Helen felt herself relaxing into his embrace. It was impossible not to. He was very large and warm, and there was such a nice smell about him, a mixture of peppermint and shaving soap and a pleasant resinous dryness like freshly cut wood. A thoroughly masculine fragrance that was somehow exciting and comforting at the same time.

“She said that one day, after I was married and shared a bed with my husband, the bleeding would stop for a time, and a baby would grow.”

“But she mentioned nothing about how babies are made in the first place?”

Helen shook her head. “Only that they're not found underneath a gooseberry bush, as the nanny always said.”

Rhys looked down at her with a mixture of concern and exasperation. “Are all young women of high rank kept so ignorant about such matters?”

“Most,” she admitted. “It's for the husband to decide what his bride should know, and instruct her on the wedding night.”

“My God. I can't decide which of them to pity more.”

“The bride,” she said without hesitation.

For some reason that made him chuckle. Feeling her stiffen, he hugged her more tightly. “No, my treasure, I'm not laughing at you. It's only that I've never explained the sexual act to anyone before . . . and I'm damned if I can think of a way to make it sound appealing.”

“Oh dear,” Helen whispered.

“It won't be terrible. I promise. You might even like some of it.” He pressed his cheek to the top of her head, and spoke with cajoling softness. “It might be best if I explain as we go along, aye?” He waited patiently until he felt her incremental nod. “Come to bed, then.”

Willing but reluctant, Helen accompanied him to the bed, discovering that her legs had turned to jelly. She tried to climb beneath the covers quickly.

“Wait.” Rhys caught one of her ankles and tugged her back toward him deftly, while he remained standing at the side of the bed.